Perfect Prey: The twisty new crime thriller that will keep you up all night

‘Not my call, sir. But I think one of the papers dubbed you Police Scotland’s answer to Brad Pitt, so maybe you won’t want to …’ Tripp’s voice faded out.

‘That’ll be all, thank you Tripp. Is the DCI available?’

‘He said only for people with good news,’ was Tripp’s parting reply.

‘Seems like we’re all going to have a disappointing day then,’ Callanach muttered.

He walked into Begbie’s office to find the Chief handing a bundle of files to a plain-clothes officer he hadn’t seen before.

Begbie pointed to a seat which Callanach decided not to bother taking.

‘No idea how long we’ll be here, I’m afraid,’ the plain-clothes officer continued, ignoring Callanach’s presence. ‘Obviously we’ll be working with your regional squad. We may also need a few of your men for on-the-ground inquiries.’

‘I’m afraid that as of yesterday all my lot are taken,’ Begbie growled, eyes closed. ‘Unless Callanach here has some unexpected news for me.’ Callanach stared out of the window. ‘Well then, you can have what office space you need, all the facilities, local knowledge to your heart’s content. Manpower is your problem.’

The officer made a non-committal noise, which Begbie ignored as he flicked the switch on the small kettle he kept in his room, presumably to minimise the need to walk the few yards along the corridor to make tea. Callanach took the opportunity to study the newcomer. The accent was recognisable as upper-class English, and the corresponding attitude was clear from the tone of his voice plus the slight upward angle at which he held his head.

‘Right, I’ll be getting along then. We’ll review our requirements and revisit the manpower issue at a later date, DCI Begbie.’ He left without a thank you, not quite bothering to ensure the door was shut. Callanach finished the job for him.

‘Anything I should know about, sir?’ Callanach asked.

‘Not today,’ Begbie muttered. ‘Got a suspect yet?’

‘Dark hair. Short, slight build, but that’s a guess as the crowd wasn’t disturbed by the murderer passing through. Could be male or female. My best description would be something along the lines of Professional Grade Murderer.’

‘Thank you Detective Inspector, be sure never to repeat those words in front of another living being. DI Turner is currently in her office trying to organise an investigation into a man she has, much like yourself, already named inappropriately. You may have a Professional Grade Murderer on your hands; Turner has The Crusher. Almost certainly male, heavy, strong, brutal and a raving psychopath if the autopsy details are anything to go by.’

‘Two in one night? Isn’t that unusual for this area?’

‘Unusual? It’s a disaster of monumental proportions, is what it is! Do you know what the headlines said this morning?’ Callanach still hadn’t braved the papers. ‘No? Well, let me halve my burden by sharing it with you. “Not safe on the streets, not safe in our homes. Edinburgh’s Night of Monstrosities”. Not catchy but pretty bloody appropriate, don’t you think?’ Begbie threw himself into the chair behind his desk so hard that it skidded backwards half a metre. ‘And I don’t have the money in the budget to pay for any overtime for the remainder of the year! Do something about it, man. I’ve got two bodies in the morgue and I daren’t so much as answer the phone.’

Callanach didn’t wait to have Begbie vent any further. It sounded as if Ava was having an even worse day than him. He wandered in the direction of her office for some mutual bemoaning of fates, not bothering to knock. As he opened the door there was a sudden parting of bodies, Ava stepping quickly backwards and banging her hip on the corner of her desk, the man she was with looking more annoyed than embarrassed to have been interrupted. Callanach recognised him as the plain-clothes officer who had recently departed the Chief’s office.

‘Begbie didn’t introduce us. Seems he’s having rather a busy day. I’m DCI Edgar,’ he said.

‘Callanach,’ he replied, holding out his hand and shaking the detective chief inspector’s. ‘I interrupted. Apologies.’

‘No, you didn’t. What was it, Luc?’ Ava asked, brushing hair away from her face.

‘Thought I’d just see how you’re doing. The Chief said you’ve picked up a rough one.’

‘That’s the best kind, isn’t it?’ Edgar chipped in.

Ava made her way to the other side of her desk and sat down.

‘Joseph’s here from the National Cyber Crime Unit in London. An attack is imminent and there’s intelligence that it’s being organised from Edinburgh.’

‘Probably best to limit the spread of the information, Ava. I gather Callanach has matters of his own to worry about.’

‘I do,’ Callanach said, ‘so I’ll catch you later. Good to meet you.’ He closed Ava’s door, grimacing, and wiping the palm of his right hand on his trousers as he went.

Chapter Five (#ulink_bc756be2-804b-5525-8006-cb7307118094)

‘Some bastard leaked the autopsy summary!’ Ava yelled, slamming Callanach’s door and throwing herself into a chair. ‘Which means either someone in Ailsa’s office or a police officer here is responsible, as if this wasn’t bad enough already.’

‘Have you slept?’ Callanach asked.

‘Listen to this.’ Ava ignored his question, tearing open the newspaper she was clutching and beginning to read. ‘“Helen Lott, a forty-six year old palliative care nurse, was deliberately crushed to death in her own bedroom.” Of all the monsters I’ve ever dealt with, who would want to kill a nurse who looks after terminally ill patients? “Injuries included multiple fractured ribs and sternum, a collapsed windpipe and severe damage to internal organs, resulting in internal bleeding and asphyxiation. A neighbour alerted police after loud noises were heard coming from the property late at night. The autopsy report suggests that the murder was torturous and orchestrated to cause as much pain to the victim as possible. Mrs Lott will be sadly missed by work colleagues and patients alike, who have described her as nothing short of an angel who had dedicated her life to nursing.” Did you know there’s graffiti about the murders emerging on walls across the city? God only knows who started that off. And we’ve just been notified that concerned citizens are planning a Take-Back-The-Night-style protest march. Like we don’t have enough policing to do already. What the fuck is going on?’

‘Have you reported the leak?’ Callanach asked.

‘Of course I have. We’ve got two officers interviewing anyone with access to the information at the city mortuary, and a member of our technical services team is checking the digital route the document took from there to us to make sure the breach didn’t come from Police Scotland’s end. On top of that, all the usual media outlets have been contacted to see if anyone approached them offering the article for money. No joy there so far. Why is the first thing that happens always the last thing you need?’ Ava huffed.

‘You want coffee?’ he asked.

Ava shook her head. ‘Sorry about yesterday. With Joe. It was …’ her voice dwindled.

‘None of my business,’ Callanach said.

‘Joe and I were friends at University. He phoned me a few weeks ago to say he was likely to be posted here. You know how sometimes you just pick things up where you left them as if no time had passed at all …’

‘Forget it. You want to get something to eat on the way home? If I don’t get a shower soon my clothes are going to sue me for hygiene abuse.’

Ava looked down at her hands.

‘It’s fine,’ Callanach said, Ava’s unspoken plans hanging in the air between them. ‘I’ll catch you tomorrow. And don’t worry about the papers. New story every day, remember?’

That turned out to be good advice. In spite of the endless coverage afforded by two murders in one night, the media headlines the next day focused on an altogether different target.

The largest incident room was taken up with an array of well-dressed plain-clothes officers, freshly washed and scrubbed, who obviously had not been up all night watching endless mobile phone footage and scanning photos with no results.

‘Something happen overnight?’ Callanach asked Sergeant Lively as he passed by.

‘Fuckin’ snobby idiots strutting around, acting like they own the place. Hunting a bunch of nerds no one in their right mind gives a damn about. Makes you look almost like a frigging native.’

‘Look almost like a frigging native, sir,’ Callanach reminded him. Lively sniggered.

‘Aye, whatever.’ Lively wandered off, stuffing a sandwich into his mouth. Callanach and he hadn’t hit it off since day one. A long-in-the-tooth sergeant with decades in the job, Lively had his own preferred candidate pegged to fill the role of Detective Inspector when Callanach had transferred in. It was a fair assumption that Lively had overseen a campaign of piss-taking posters and nasty rumours that had undermined Callanach until he nailed his first case with Police Scotland. He and the detective sergeant had finally progressed from coming close to blows, to tolerating one another, although the verbal abuse hadn’t stopped. At least the influx of Scotland Yard’s finest had provided a favourable comparison.

Callanach’s phone was ringing as he reached his office. He took the call as he threw his jacket onto the desk. It was too hot for any sane person to be wearing more than shorts and a T-shirt. Shirts and ties were one of the drawbacks of promotion.

‘Callanach,’ he said.

‘DI Callanach, I’ve left several messages for you,’ was the opening line. ‘This is Lance Proudfoot. I’m the editor of an online news and current affairs blog. I was hoping to get a statement about the festival murder.’

‘How did you get this number?’ Callanach asked.

‘Switchboard put me through.’